


War Songs

by Her_Madjesty



Series: To and Fro - Bicolline [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternative Universe - LARP, Battle, Battle Couple, Blue Lions!Byleth, Don't worry; it's still temporary, F/M, Light Angst, Pining, Reincarnation, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:08:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24267949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Her_Madjesty/pseuds/Her_Madjesty
Summary: The air is cool, the sun is high, and Byleth has a new sword.
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan
Series: To and Fro - Bicolline [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1751797
Comments: 22
Kudos: 35





	War Songs

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to everyone who so enthusiastically commented on the LARP piece that preceded this one! It's thanks to all of you that I managed to turn around a follow-up so quickly. 
> 
> Important Notes: 
> 
> 1) The time-jumps are depicted by clear titles in all sections of this fic save for one, and there, it's intentional. I got a little pretentious/artsy with it; if it's confusing, well, it's honestly meant to be.  
> 2) You can hover over any French terms and read their equivalent translations in the hover-text. I apologize to any native French Canadians; I am neither French nor Canadian.

**Year One**

The air is cool, the sun is high, and Byleth has a new sword.

She weighs the balance between her palms, the foam giving a little as she squeezes the blade. “And this is game legal?” she asks, staring down its jagged length.

The vendor across the booth from her nods. “It looks like it toes the line, I know,” she says, “but I made it myself, and it’s as legal as any of the gear the monsters bring out on the field.”

"Will I need a monster costume to use it?"

The vendor shrugs. “Only if you want one.”

It’s her first year at Bicolline. Le Grande Bataille de Bicolline is still days away, but the sword she’d brought with her – bright orange and vibrant on the battlefield – had broken in two in the middle of her first battle. Now, Byleth stares at a long, bone-white sword that looks more like a spine than an actual weapon.

The rest of Ordo Cervi – a rag-tag collection of LARPers from around the world – spread out in the market behind her. It’s only when Byleth reaches for her coin purse that she feels a presence settle in beside her.

“You’re taking that into a fight?” demands a dark-haired young man. Byleth frowns at him, trying to place him amongst the sea of strangers she’s recently met. He doesn’t spare her a glance, though, too fascinated by the make of her sword.

“Why not?” she replies – and there’s his name, Felix. She waits for an answer, but she never gets one. Before she’s had time to complete her transaction, Felix has all but monopolized the vendor. Byleth watches color rise in the young woman’s cheeks. They make eye contact over his head.

Byleth’s never been quick to understand others’ emotions, but this cry for help couldn’t be clearer. She looks to Felix, still in the middle of his rant, and gently knocks against his elbow.

“If you keep talking, I won’t be able to buy it.”

Felix cuts himself off mid-sentence and scowls at her. Even so, he steps back from the counter with a huff. Byleth stares at him, dead-eyed.

She doesn’t approach the counter again until he turns on his heel. He doesn’t stray far, but it’s enough distance to drain some of the tension out of the vendor’s shoulders.

“Is he always like that?” she asks, accepting Byleth’s coin.

“I wouldn’t know.”

She drags the transaction out a little longer, but there’s only so much dawdling, she finds, that can keep Felix at bay. As soon as her purse is back on her belt, he rushes the counter. Byleth offers the vendor a hapless, if sympathetic, shrug before she hefts her new blade up onto her shoulder.

Transaction complete, she makes her way back into the thrum of the market.

She can see Ordo Cervi’s camp from the top of the rolling hills, its green colors a sharp beauty against Bicolline’s own luxurious grounds. The sight catches her off-guard. She hadn’t expected it to be like this – so beautiful, so immersive.

So...somehow familiar.

“It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?” A new voice jolts her from her strange nostalgia. Byleth doesn’t flinch – doesn’t know how to. Instead, she glances over to see a mousy young man falling into step beside her. Behind him, she sees a taller man clad in all blues keeping a respectable distance.

She studies him with narrowed eyes, trying to place his face. “You could say that.”

The young man stifles a laugh. “I’m Ashe,” he says, sticking out his hand. “I don’t think we’ve had a chance to chat yet?”

Byleth shakes his hand and offers up her name in return. When she casts a pointed glance at the man tailing them, Ashe shakes his head and laughs.

“Sir Blaiddyd,” he calls back, “come and join us?”

Byleth feels a bubble of amusement rise up through her chest as their tail blushes. “My apologies, Ashe,” he calls, taking two large steps forward to catch up with them. “I promise I wasn’t intentionally following you; we were just...headed in the same direction. But please,” he adds, “I asked you to call me Dimitri.”

“Oh, don’t worry!” Ashe colors a pretty shade of pink. “I wasn’t accusing you, Sir Blaiddyd. But if we’re all heading in the same direction, isn’t it easier to walk together?”

Sir Blaiddyd – Dimitri – hums in agreement. “I suppose. But I interrupted! What were the two of you discussing before?”

“Ah! Yes!” Ashe smiles. “Miss Byleth, I was on the hill during our last fight. I saw your sword break while you were taking down that minotaur. You’ve got to be one of the strongest fighters here, I think. Have you LARPed before?”

“I was wondering the same,” Dimitri says. “I’ll admit, I’ve been a bad camp-mate – I haven’t had a chance to meet everyone just yet. I saw, though, that at least Felix has made your acquaintance.”

“After her work on the field? That’s no surprise.”

Byleth blinks. If these young men think she knows Felix, then they’re sorely mistaken. She goes to say as much – but then the conversation’s shifted, and her camp-mates are peppering her with questions.

The conversation varies. They ask her about her LARP experience – non-existent – and the goals that drove her to travel with The Voyage North. It’s – pleasant, for lack of a better term, and she rapidly finds herself directed away from her own tent and towards the mens’, where they proceed to introduce her to the rest of their motley crew.

Byleth almost forgets the weight of her sword on her shoulder as she meanders through introduction after introduction. This small sect within the Ordo is enthusiastic, to say the least, and she finds herself...taken in by their warmth.

(It’s a moment that changes her, though she doesn’t recognize it as such at the time.)

**Year Four**

The night after she steals – no, takes – her sword back from Von Riegan, Byleth joins him and the rest of Le Cerf D’or on the battlefield. She’s used to the thrum of energy that precedes a battle. It calms her, even as the strange tension between herself and Von Riegan keeps their interactions brief.

What she isn’t used to is the singing.

She’s heard songs at Bicolline before, of course. Every night, Old and New Town take up songs performed by local artists and touring bands. But Crête de Feu doesn’t sing.

Well.

That’s not true.

Annette sings, and if Mercedes is in the mood, she’ll sing with her. There are no battle hymns, though, that carry them onto the field. After they’d broken with Ordo Cervi, both Byleth and Dimitri had agreed that the camp’s battlefield silence was more intimidating than any song could be.

Le Cerf D’or clearly do not agree.

The march out to the fields is, for lack of a better term, loud. They’re only a moment out of camp when, to her surprise, Lorenz clears his throat. The gorgeous strain of French that pours of him doesn’t seem like it should be a call to war, but the rest of Le Cerf D’or are quick to take up the call and response.

Byleth, unable to make sense of what’s being said, can only stare at her temporary companions with growing shock.

From the front of the party comes a rich, shivering tenor. Von Riegan glances over his shoulder at her. His hand lights on the quiver strapped to his thigh, and Byleth deliberately doesn’t follow the motion with her eyes. Instead, she watches his growing joy wipe away the detachment that’s plagued their interactions since the night before.

When Lorenz begins his next verse, Von Riegan joins him, though this time, in heavily-accented English:

“Victory sings, and opens its gates for us!

Liberty guides our steps, and from North to South,

The horn of war will ring the battle hour.

Tremble, enemies of France!

Kings drunk on blood and pride;

Sovereign People come forth!

Tyrants go down to your graves!”

Her breath catches. Byleth barely resists the urge to press a hand to her chest, too caught up in the sudden heat of Von Riegan’s stare.

For a moment, her vision doubles.

The same voices ring in her ears, in another language she cannot understand. She sees this party, these people walking in the shade of green trees, their voices carrying as they march towards an unnamed city. As Hilda’s voice takes over for Lorenz’s, the contrast of the moment – one, marked by fake weapons and dulcet French; the other with a banner bearing a strange, intricate symbol – threatens to rock Byleth to her core.

A hand catches on her arm. Byleth starts, but there’s Raphael, righting her before she can step into the remains of a rabbit warren. He beams down at her, his deep bass rocking her bones. His touch on her arm is light, but it stays there until she’s stable and able to graze her fingers over his broad knuckles.

Le Cerf D’or sing all the way to the battlefield. By the time they arrive, Byleth manages to right herself – but only just.

**Year One**

The night before her first Grand Bataille, Byleth sits around a campfire with a scant few members of Ordo Cervi. Most are out and about, watching monster fights, dancing at one of many concerts, or bathing in the nearby river.

Dimitri, though, opts to stay next to her, talking in a low voice about their strategy for the day to come. His friend – partner? - friend, Dedue, sticks to his left, while she is at his right. Felix flits in and out of their conversation, distracted on occasion by a red-head whom Byleth gifted a bruise within a minute of meeting.

Across the fire, she can see the outline of Mercedes and Annette, two of Ordo’s few mages. The two women have their heads bent together, though their conversation is lost for the crackle of the fire and the timbre of Dimitri’s voice.

“You’re coming back next year, aren’t you?” he asks, an abrupt change of subject. Byleth blinks, then refocuses, her face over-warm.

Dimitri stares at her, boyish faith bleeding through his normally stoic expression.

“I hadn’t thought about it,” Byleth admits. The weight of her sword on her back is a heavy one, but she can’t seem to stand to part with it, these days.

Dimitri reaches out and touches her hand. “Do,” he says. “I think – no, I know that with you on our side, we could do great things.”

(And it will take years for her to realize, but this is the moment she starts to wake up – a moment when Dimitri’s earnest expression shudders into something darker, but she continues forward, unfaltering.)

**Year Four**

Le Cerf D’or do not stop singing once they arrive on the battlefield. Their songs, though, ever-changing, quiet as they take their places. Byleth watches as Leonie and Hilda take to the front lines, Leonie’s alto blending with Hilda’s versatile soprano. Marianne falls quiet as she settles in the back with the rest of the mages. Lysithea, comparatively, lets her voice quiver in the air, as though reaching out to the deer in their various battle stations.

Byleth, still quiet, moves to make her way to the front lines. She only stops when she hears Von Riegan’s own tones fall off beside her.

The Ashen Demon does not ask for permission to engage. Even so, Byleth cannot help but look back at her new commander.

The warmth in his expression is still there, but it is a shadow of what she saw – what he gifted her while they marched together. There is no distrust in Von Riegan’s expression, but there is a sort of wariness.

“You do not sing, mon demone?”

“Not unless I know the words.”

This earns her the smallest of smiles. “Then we’ll have to have Lorenz teach them to you. You cannot be part of Le Cerf D’or if you don’t sing.”

Despite herself, Byleth feels the corner of her mouth twitch. “I don’t remember seeing that on the application.”

It feels like an olive branch, though she knows she’s done nothing wrong. Even so, her heart stutters when Von Riegan’s smile shifts into a smirk. “It was in the fine print.”

Byleth shakes her head. She moves again to leave him with the rest of the archers, only to hear the sounds of shouting from the other side of the field. She looks out – and yes, there’s the fort that Le Cerf D’or will have to breach. Behind it, representatives from Les Guerrieres du Sreng await, raising up their battle cry with thunderous voices and the banging of shields.

“Don’t go to the front,” Von Riegan calls.

Byleth looks back, confused.

He grins at her – still dishonest, but charmingly so. “Rumors of your capture spread pretty quickly,” he admits. “They’ll be expecting you. Head into the trees with me, mon demone – we’ll catch les guerrieres in a pincer attack.”

Byleth glances out at the field, then hums in understanding. Despite her better judgment, she falls into step next to Le Cerf D’or’s leader.

Not a minute before the battle is meant to begin, she hears Lorenz’s voice, again, carrying even above the rattling of shields and swords.

The song, compared to the roar of the enemy, is slow and rich with longing. The members of Le Cerf D’or not in hiding take it up, until the whole of the hill is shaking with their voices. The din of the shields does not soften, but from her vantage point, Byleth can see Les Guerrieres du Sreng falter. Some of them even lean closer to the gate, frowning as Lorenz’s song carries across the battlefield.

Byleth stills as warm breath dances across her ear. Von Riegan sings low, at the bottom of his register, and Byleth feels something in her soul _ache._

It’s enough to make her jump when the starting whistle blows. It’s a break, both in character and in her own stoic nature – so of course, why else would Von Riegan be staring at her with so much naked shock on his face?

But then, Les Guerrieres du Sreng charge. There’s no more time for singing.

Byleth has a job to do.

**Year One**

No matter who she fights for, the thrum of battle is always the same.

With Ordo Cervi, Byleth charges -

**Year Four**

With Le Cerf D’or, she waits.

***

Her new-bought sword comes down hard on the head of an enemy, sending him reeling.

***

Her pulse pounds at her throat, but there’s Von Riegan’s hand on her shoulder, holding her back.

***

There’s Dimitri, streaking past her in a bolt of blue, his lance forward.

***

There’s a golden arrow streaking past her ear, and the quiet, “now!” of a patient man.

***

Byleth ducks -

***

Byleth lunges -

***

And in some distant past, the soldier she cuts down never gets up again. The sword in her hands hums with life, and she can taste blood in her mouth, but she doesn’t know if it’s hers or someone else’s.

***

Dedue’s shield protects her from a blow to her back, but Byleth does not hesitate to thank him.

***

Another arrow flies past her ear, smacking a Sreng soldier dead in the face.

***

She feels a sword cut against her arm and pulls back, expecting to see a wound.

***

She dodges a thrust to the face and trips a young mage who’s run too far ahead of her flock.

***

She parries.

***

She listens.

***

Wyverns fly past her head.

***

And the battle -

***

And the battle -

***

And the battle rages on -

***

Until it ends.

**Year One**

Dimitri finds her at the end of the fight, a bruise forming on his cheek. His eyes are alight with joy, and without stopping for breath, he lifts her up in the air and swings her around.

Byleth feels something in her chest threaten to crack open.

Dimitri laughs as she smiles.

“Next year,” he says, once she’s back on her feet again, “you and us. We’ll forge our own path, and we’ll do this all over again.”

He looks ready to say more, but there’s Annette at her ear and Sylvain at her shoulder; the whole of Ordo Cervi cheering as the referees wrack up their kills.

**Year Four**

Les Guerrieres du Sreng slink off the field as Le Cerf D’or take up their songs again. From her place beside the fort, Byleth lifts a hand and waves, sweat dripping off of her brow. From across the field, Lysithea spots her and is quick to wave back.

At her side, Von Riegan slings his bow back across his chest.

“Not bad, mon demone,” he says, voice ragged for lack of breath.

“Not bad, yourself,” Byleth replies. “I’ve never seen an archer so good at close range.”

Von Riegan grins – and for a moment, he’s Claude, laughing in the middle of training grounds Byleth has yet to identify.

“Gotta be quick on a field like this.” His hand wraps gently around her elbow. As he hauls her off the wall, Marianne comes rushing to her side, a flask of water in hand. Byleth drinks greedily, once she’s offered, and sinks into the noise of song around her.

“Hey!” shouts Raphael, coming up beside her. “You’re gonna be a deer before you know it, Miss Byleth!”

“I’ll say,” says Leonie, snatching the water skin from her hands. “Come on; let’s go celebrate!”

And before she can stop them, Le Cerf D’or have swept her away from the battlefield, laughing and singing and making bets about the bruises that are sure to appear in the morning. Byleth walks in the midst of them, her arm locked with Leonie’s, and finds herself smiling.

(And from behind, if Claude watches her go? Watches her blue hair blend in with his colorful camp? Grits his teeth against a stutter in his chest, against the familiarity of the scene, against the possessive “ours” that threatens to turn the game into reality?)

(Well, no one has to know but him.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Let me know what you thought - there's still room to play in this universe, I think.
> 
> Continued Notes: 
> 
> 1) The first song Lorenz and the deer sing is ["Le Chant de Departe,"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XIKFJcImoOo) a traditional French war hymn. The second is ["The Yawning Grave,"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UmtCz1a3ikc) by Lord Huron. I didn't include the lyrics to the second song because I was terrified this would turn into a song fic, but you can click on the titles here for links to the songs on YouTube.  
> 2) Does this series merit a playlist? The more music I listen to while writing it, the more I feel like it does.  
> 3) The time-jumps are depicted by clear titles in all sections of this fic save for one, and there, it's intentional. I got a little pretentious/artsy with it; if it's confusing, well, it's honestly meant to be.


End file.
